“From what I’ve heard,” Judge Herndon said, “the man still had his head together. And I wouldn’t buy that objection even if he hadn’t. Overruled.”
Christina sat down, expertly masking her disappointment. She hadn’t expected to win that objection, but on something this important it would be negligent not to make an effort.
“What he said was,” Albertson continued, “‘I tried to warn that girl.’”
This time, the reaction in the gallery was one of total silence. Ben preferred the murmurings. They were less ominous.
Padolino continued. “Did you find anything of interest during your search?”
“Yes. The forensics teams uncovered-”
Padolino was smart enough not to wait for the objection. “Excuse me, sir. I’m asking what you yourself may or may not have discovered.”
“Oh, right. The hideaway was pretty clean. Astonishingly clean, actually. Couldn’t even get fingerprints.”
Christina rose, but Padolino jumped in. “But you-Lieutenant Albertson. What did you find?”
“The only item of note that I found was the Gutenberg.”
Padolino wrinkled his forehead as if he didn’t understand. “Could you please explain what that is?”
“Sure. That’s what I soon learned the senator-and everyone on his staff-calls his appointment book. Big thick thing. Like a Filofax, only more so. It’s bound in black leather, and he’s apparently had it for many years, and it shows-it’s very worn. That’s why they call it the Gutenberg.”
“I see. A little joke. Did you find anything of interest in the, uh, Gutenberg?”
“Yes. Naturally, I opened it to the present day. I found that his committee had a meeting starting at nine that morning. A line down the side indicated he expected it to go well into the afternoon. Nonetheless, there was another entry, just below that one. I found he’d had a ten A.M. appointment.”
“With whom?”
“Well, as you’ll see, the book just says: 10:00, V. C.”
Another stir in the gallery, louder than before. This was a detail most of those present probably did not know; it hadn’t been in the papers.
“V. C.? As in Veronica Cooper.”
Albertson leaned back. “Well, I assume he wasn’t visiting with the Vietcong. For that matter, when I thumbed through the past month, I found numerous other meetings with V. C. Sometimes more than one a day.”
Padolino nodded. “Thank you for your cooperation, Lieutenant.” He turned toward the defense table. “Your witness.”
Stigmata was nothing like Loving expected, but of course he’d never been to a Goth club and, for that matter, hoped to God there weren’t any back in Tulsatown. Practically everyone was done up in the manner that Lucille had described-silver jewelry, body piercings, dark hair, pale makeup, ruby-red or ebony-black lipstick. And in the apparel department-lots of black. Black tops, black bottoms. Black fishnet bodices. Black leather.
What bothered Loving most was that, save for the few skimpily dressed women, most of the crowd favored an androgynous style that made it uncomfortably difficult to tell if he was scrutinizing the curves of a male or female. Black was a concealing color, and the silver jewelry and body piercings seemed entirely unisex. Plus, everyone was wearing black mascara, way too much. Was that supposed to be sexy? Loving thought they looked like they’d escaped from Pirates of the Caribbean. Standing there in a white T-shirt and a Casaba baseball cap, he felt like a whitebread turkey in the middle of Harlem.
“So this is a party bar?” Loving asked.
“More like the Little Shop of Horrors,” Daily replied soberly. “And to think my daughter came here for kicks.” He was standing just beside Loving, but the music was so loud he had to shout.
The lighting was low-and most of it came from the blazing torches hanging on the sides of the faux-stone walls, giving the place the ambience of a medieval castle. Chains of human skulls were strung together like bunting across the walls. Loving assumed they were fakes, but still… creepy. Several bright white spotlights periodically shone back and forth across the dance floor, creating a strobe-like effect. It was disorienting, disturbing, and made Loving more than a little nauseated.
“We should talk to folks,” Loving said. “Let’s split up. Meet back here in an hour.”
Daily nodded, then headed off to the right, toward the dance floor. Loving pointed himself in the direction of the bar. Well, that was his lot in life, right?
Loving took a seat on the nearest bar stool. Given his fish-out-of-water appearance, he knew he’d have to work hard to get anyone to talk to him. He ordered a beer-which arrived in a medieval goblet with a pewter base depicting writhing naked figures. Just two stools down, he noticed a shapely young woman wearing-surprise!-black, top to bottom. Or so he first thought. On closer inspection via the mirror opposite the bar, he realized that a vast amount of what he initially took to be a body stocking was in fact black body paint, and that in reality she was not wearing much at all. Just black leather boots, a black sports bra, and, around her pelvis, a black leather thong.
“Howdy,” Loving said. The woman looked up at him, gave him a quick once-over, then returned her attention to her drink.
This could be challenging. He wasn’t going to get her attention with stupid bar glass stunts or by talking about dogs. He rummaged through his overcoat pockets, searching for something that might work in a joint like this. Until he found just the right thing. He pulled the parts out of his pocket, put both ends into place, let a few more minutes pass innocently by, then turned toward the woman in black and smiled.
“Wanna see a trick?”
“What?” she said, in a voice almost as husky as his. “Like you’re going to pull a quarter out of my ear or something?”
“No, no. Somethin’ much more interestin’.”
“Thanks. I’ll pass.”
“Suit yourself,” Loving said, but he went right on with his routine, checking out the corner of his eye to make sure she was watching. She was.
He pulled the large nail out of his pocket and pointed it toward his wrist.
“Oh, you might wanna scoot down a few seats,” Loving said pleasantly. “Sometimes the blood kind of splatters around.”
“What in the-”
“Think I can drive this iron spike through my wrist with my fist?”
Loving wasn’t sure how to read her expression, but she wasn’t turning away. “God, no. And even if you could-why?”
“I told you, it’s a trick.”
“Not one I care to see.”
“You never know. Can’t be worse than some of the stuff goin’ down on that dance floor. Here we go.” He poised the nail against his wrist and then, in a split second, brought his other fist down on the top of the nail, hard. The tip of a sharp bloody spike emerged from the other end of his wrist, piercing his shirt sleeve. Blood spurted in every direction.
“Oh my God,” the woman said, leaning away but not, Loving noticed, moving away. “Are you in pain? How can you do that?”
“Like I told you. It’s a trick.” With a swift gesture, he removed the collapsible nail from the top of his wrist and pulled the separate, spring-loaded fake spike tip-triggered by the impact of his blow to poke through the hole he’d already cut in his shirt and split open a bag of red Karo syrup. “Had you goin’, though, didn’t I?”
Despite herself, the woman smiled. “So… that isn’t really blood on your wrist?”
“Nah. Why?”
“Just… wondered.” She turned away. “You are one seriously twisted dude, mister.”
“Why else would I be here?”
“So you thought you’d win me over with that sick circus trick?”
“I dunno. Did it work?” He extended his hand.
Her grip was cold and limp. Loving didn’t get the impression she was trying to be rude. She just seemed to have a body temperature lower than most lizards. “I’m the Duchess.”
“Are you?” he replied. “I’m
the Loving. You come here often?”
“Every night. But I’ve never seen you here before.”
“Yeah, it’s my first time. I didn’t know the dress code.” He noticed she had very long nails-not real, he hoped-predictably painted dark black. The red lines and glassiness of her eyes, her mildly slurred speech, her breath, all suggested to Loving that she was operating under the influence. Excessive amounts of alcohol. Or something.
“Actually, I’m here lookin’ for a friend,” he added. “Her name’s Amber. Amber Daily. Do you know her?”
“I’m afraid I’ve never heard that odd appellation.”
This from a woman who called herself the Duchess. “What about a girl called Lilith? Lady Lilith?”
Even though she tried to suppress it, he saw the flicker of recognition in the woman’s eyes.
“So you know her?”
“I’ve known a Lilith.”
“She’s twenty-two, sandy hair-or possibly black, when she comes here. Look, her dad gave me a picture.” He passed it to the Duchess.
She glanced at it, frowned, then passed it back, facedown. “She’s one of the Chosen.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means she’s permitted up there.” She pointed a long dark nail upward and across the bar.
Just to the left of the central dance area, Loving spotted an interior staircase leading to a room on the second floor. There were wall-sized windows on either side of the door, but drapes pulled across them obscured the view. “And what goes on up there?”
“Don’t know. I’ve never been invited.”
“Is going upstairs a good thing?”
“It must be. Once a girl is chosen, you never see her down here again. You never see her at all.”
Christina came to the podium with a pretty good understanding of what she could get out of Lieutenant Albertson on cross and what she couldn’t. It wasn’t as if he were lying, after all. Slanting things to serve his prosecutorial masters, maybe. But his testimony was essentially accurate. She had to make what few points she could and then sit down.
“Let’s talk about the Gutenberg, Lieutenant. You said it memorialized many appointments scheduled with V. C. And you assumed that V. C. is Veronica Cooper.”
“Well, it stands to reason-”
“Did you investigate the possibility that V. C. could be someone else?”
“Given that I had a corpse bearing those initials right there in the hideaway-”
“In other words, no. You didn’t investigate the possibility that V. C. was anyone other than Veronica Cooper. You didn’t investigate at all.”
“That’s not true.”
“Then why didn’t you consider other possibilities?”
“Ma’am, when you’ve got a dead body right-”
“Are you familiar with Senator Collins of Minnesota?”
“I… think I’ve heard the name.”
“Are you aware that his first name is Vincent?”
Albertson pursed his lips. “No.”
“What about Senator Conrad from Alaska?”
“I… haven’t had the pleasure.”
“His first name is Verne. And he’s on the same Health Committee as Senator Glancy. I would imagine they talk quite often, wouldn’t you?”
“I… suppose.”
“Did you ever ask Senator Conrad if he’d had any of those meetings with Senator Glancy? Oh wait-since you didn’t even know who he was, I guess the answer to that would be no. Am I right?”
“I didn’t talk to Senator Conrad. I saw no reason to do so.”
“Because you’d already made up your mind who the guilty party was, long before you even began your so-called investigation. Probably the instant you entered Senator Glancy’s hideaway. He was the obvious suspect, and it’s always easiest to go with the obvious suspect. Are you by any chance a Republican, sir?”
“Check your coat?”
Loving and Daily whirled around and saw a young twentysomething man in a dark tuxedo and tails standing behind a counter. In total contrast to the rest of the club, he had red hair. And a lighthearted manner that was more twee than Transylvania. He almost smiled.
“It’s hot in there,” the man added, pointing to Daily. “Thought you might want to lose the jacket.”
“Right, right.” He shrugged off his navy-blue jacket and handed it to the man behind the counter.
“Mmm. Yummy, yummy.”
Daily did a double take. “Huh?”
The man pointed. “Blood.”
Daily glanced down and saw a dark red splatter on the right arm of his shirt. “Blast,” he muttered. “Scraped my arm in that alley, Loving. Wouldn’t have happened if you’d gone down easier.”
“My apologies.”
“Maybe I better keep the jacket.”
“Whatever you say,” the man replied, handing it back. “But you may be passing up your chance to make yourself Mr. Popular in there with the Gothettes.”
“I’ll take the risk.” Loving headed toward the dance floor, while Daily slipped back into his jacket. “Do I detect a certain wry tone in your voice?”
“Who, me?” the man said, pressing a hand against his chest. “Far be it. I just work here.”
“What’s your name? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Well, in real life, it’s Joe. But in here-I’m Baron Orzny.”
“Pleased to meet you, Baron. So-you just work here. You’re not-”
“A member of this Gloomfest? No. Find me an opening at the Hard Rock Café and I’m gone.”
Daily grinned. “Not your kind of people?”
“Aw, they’re not that bad. Ever been to a biker bar?”
“No.”
“Well, this is better. Certainly more stylish. Just keep reminding yourself it’s all make-believe. Even when some of them seem to have forgotten.”
“How does a person turn into a… Goth?”
“It’s easy, man. Just remember the number one rule.”
“And that is?”
“Become clinically depressed. Or look like you are, anyway. No smiles permitted, except for the occasional throaty growl of sensual pleasure. After that, it’s all easy. Change your vocabulary. Instead of talking about ‘blow’ or ‘wingspan’ or ‘hotties,’ you talk about the ‘ethereal,’ or ‘ectoplasmic dimensions’ or ‘life force’-also known to the Goth elite as ‘psi.’ A name change is equally essential. ‘Heather’ is out. ‘Lucretia’ is fashionable. Long hair is good, especially if it impairs the vision or obscures the face. The dress code-well, that part is obvious enough. The popularity of tattoos and piercings is equally self-evident. The latest rage is to have some body part pierced no one else has yet thought to pierce-and my, hasn’t that led to some delightful spectacles.”
“But-why would anyone want to do this?”
“Evidently it’s fun, dude. I mean, look at them out there, writhing and twisting and doing that stuff they euphemistically call dancing. Mostly they just sort of sway-not in rhythm, but then this minor-key dirge-like music has no rhythm. Of course, they look ridiculous, but most of them are so stoned they don’t know the difference.”
Daily stiffened. “Stoned?”
“Look at the expressions on their faces. Look at their eyes. Do they seem normal to you? Maybe it’s just the booze, but…”
“I didn’t see anyone pushing on the dance floor.”
“You think they want to be arrested?”
“Tell me where it’s coming from.”
“I’m not so sure that would be smart.”
“Tell me!” Daily bellowed. As an afterthought, he added, quietly, “Please.”
Baron Orzny hesitated. “You’re looking for your daughter, aren’t you, man?”
Daily nodded slowly.
The Baron blew out his cheeks, checked to make sure no one was listening. “Thought so. That’s why I started talking to you in the first place. Look, the kind of action you’re talking about isn’t on the dance floor.”
“Then where is it?”
Baron Orzny pointed to the far end to the club, past the dance stage, to a staircase in the rear leading up to a room overlooking the club. “Owner has a private place up there. Very exclusive. Only a few are admitted-just his close buddies, the goon squad, and some very young, carefully chosen girls. Every night his people scour the floor looking for new meat. After a girl goes up there and disappears for a while-she’s like a whole different person. Changed. Personality, attitude, everything. And then they disappear.”
“Amber,” Daily said, under his breath. “How do I get up there?”
The Baron gave him a once-over. “Well, nothing personal, dude, but-I don’t think you do. You’re not really the owner’s type.”
“He’ll have to make an exception.”
“Hey!” He grabbed Daily’s arm. “Don’t do anything stupid. He’s got all kinds of security.”
Daily’s teeth were set firmly together. “I’ll find a way.”
10
A lthough the ropes lining the granite courthouse staircase were still in place, Ben was pleased to see that the podium had been removed. The federal marshals delivered his client at a discreet location out of camera sight, and together they walked up the long steps.
“What,” Ben asked him, “no press conference today?”
Glancy smiled, adjusting the lie of his bright red necktie as he walked. “First rule of politics, Ben. Never repeat yourself. The first post-incarceration press conference is an event. After that, it’s yesterday’s news. Buzz Aldrin was the second man to walk on the face of the moon. You remember what he said?”
“No.”
“Which is exactly my point.” Glancy smiled, waved, even signed an autograph book, all without ever slowing or tempting the marshals to intervene. “I’ve been meaning to say something about your taste in attire, Ben. I gather you’re not exactly… up with the latest fashion trends?”
Ben tugged at the lapels of his jacket. “You think my suit is dated?”
“I think it’s carbon-dated. And isn’t that the same suit you wore on Monday?”
“I only have three. And one of them was stained by an outraged parent.”
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